


don't blame the river (that nothing happened quickly)

by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [358]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Gold Rush AU, Gwindor is the best person to talk to Mae right now, Gwindor is the best regardless, Medical Procedures, Past Slavery, Trauma Buddies, descriptions of torture, the background of Gwindor's later conversation with Maedhros, title from Mary Oliver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 11:20:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29998569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: “If you will see to Maedhros,” Fingolfin said, “I will go and speak to my son as best I can. Whatever you…whatever you deem best to say to Maedhros, I shall trust. But I would only beg…I would only beg as a father, that you do not judge Fingon too harshly in all of this. His heart and mind desire nothing but his cousin’s good.”Gwindor shook his head. He didn’t need to know what had been said, to know his reply to that. “There’s nothing that could make me think ill of your boy,” he said. “Nothing. Not after what he’s done for mine.”
Relationships: Arien & Gwindor (Tolkien), Arien & Maedhros | Maitimo, Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë & Gwindor, Gelmir of Nargothrond & Gwindor, Gwindor & Maedhros | Maitimo
Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [358]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300685
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	don't blame the river (that nothing happened quickly)

**Author's Note:**

> Set between and alongside chapter 4 of "the hurricane and the eye," when Estrela leaves Fingon and Maedhros, and chapter 3 of "steadfast as the hills of stone," when Fingolfin has been relieved by Gwindor.

Gwindor’s shoulder ached.

While there was still light in the sky, he had been assisting Turgon with the laying of stones for another section of the wall. In his slave days, he would have been expected to pick the stones out of the ground with an ax or his bare hands, but as it was, Turgon had done a few hours of that himself with the help of younger Mithrim men. Gwindor need only place one stone atop another, while the red-brown earth clinging to them stained his hands, and Turgon directed his movements in a voice that lacked the overseer note of absolute command.

It was on his own account, then, that he had worked too long. He was eager to be useful, and eager to keep his mind from dark places, and as such, he had kept at it until the hand and forearm of his bad arm were numb. Then the warped muscles at his neck and back set in with their usual fury, twitching and seizing till he was like to swear or weep. He admitted defeat to Turgon by means of a hasty “‘fraid that’s all I have in me today, lad.”

Turgon thanked him gruffly—more like Caranthir than his father or Fingon, in Gwindor’s opinion, not that he’d say so—and Gwindor began his ascent of the short stretch of hill that lay between the guarding wall and the fort.

Sometimes he was tired of himself in this place: tired of a sad, twisted fellow who couldn’t be stirred to work a full day without the threat of a whip hanging over him. But he wasn’t tired of the fort itself; years in slave barracks had made him indifferent to many unpleasantries of cramped quarters. And as for frontier life, generally, he had not known another since long before his capture.

He swiped his brow with his good hand, the one that wasn’t shaking. He was gritty with sweat and red earth. He was tired, and he didn’t want to think of the past.

Inside the hall, he greeted Davy and the upstart golden minx, cousin to Russandol, whose name Gwindor never remembered. He didn’t speak to anyone else, because no one else was near the door itself and Gwindor’s entrance was an unremarkable thing. Friends or not, these people were used to him. In times of peace, they simply lived alongside him without asking where he was going or what he was doing.

That _he_ remarked on this only went to show that there were some nasty ways in which a slave’s life was special. You were, in your prime, a valuable body. Your master wanted to know your whereabouts, your limits of endurance.

He shook his head stiffly, trying to clear it, and turned down the corridor towards the kitchen and the yard. In the yard, the return to fresh air was a comfort after the smoky warmth of the fort. He couldn’t enjoy it, though, because he had to wash under the pump, and to do so alone with his shoulder as it was promised a devil of a time. For a flash of instant he imagined Russandol, hale and whole as he had been in Mithrim a year ago, helping an old cripple to wash his face.

He was always thinking of the boy, even when he’d kept busy. He was always worrying over him, no matter how close young Fingon decided to be about his healing. And Fingon _had_ been close, of late.

Gwindor gripped the grooved curve of the pump handle and began to prime it. It was a small thing, but the well was deep. It needed about a dozen strokes before water flowed.

He’d counted eight when Estrela called his name.

“Gwindor! Let me.”

Her voice was a little strange, but Gwindor himself was bleary with aching exhaustion, and could be no rightful judge. He slumped gratefully beside the pump, and Estrela crossed the distance between them. She was wearing a skirt today. It looked—in truth, he wasn’t quite sure how it looked, but he decided not to make a compliment out of telling her how unnatural it was to see her dressed as a woman. He was a man and a fool, of course, but not fool enough for that.

She pumped, and he bathed. The water was icy on his face and hands. He drank a little of it, still dripping.

“Thanks,” he said. “Day as long as an age, that was. Wall’s growing, though—stone by stone.”

She didn’t answer. He peered at her, though there was not much light reaching them from the lantern beside the kitchen door. Nevertheless, she turned from him, hiding from even the dimmest gaze.

Knowing her as well as he did, he reached out and caught her shoulder in his good hand. “Belle,” he said, forgetting her new-old name for a moment, “What is it? Are you hurt?”

“No—no—” she said, but she did not shy away any longer. Indeed, she clung to him, not minding his dirty clothes or wet face.

He held her for a long while, breathing hard. There was only one trouble this could be; if the children were hurt, she would be with them. _Russandol._

“Estrela,” he said now, as calmly as he could, “Tell me.”

She drew in a whickering breath. “I had no right to hear it,” she said. “And now I can’t forget it. Oh, God.”

Gwindor considered. “You needn’t tell me, then,” he said. “If it’ll pain you. Only—is there naught I can do for you?”

“For him,” she said. “For Russandol. Please. I— _somebody_ must see to him.”

“Well now,” said Gwindor, already wishing he was at the boy’s side, but knowing that _he_ hadn’t the right to run there, just yet. “Do you think I should? Surely his family’s with him.”

“It’s not his family he wants,” she whispered. “I don’t think.”

Gwindor’s thoughts raced. “What changed?” he asked. Last he’d seen Russandol, Maglor had been hovering about like a moth, and Fingon had been as he always was. The rest came and went. 

“Fingon must perform another surgery on his leg,” Estrela answered. “A ghastly one.”

“It’s crooked,” said Gwindor. “You know that as well as I.”

“I do. But it…he’s terribly frightened, Gwindor. Frightened of what it will mean. I think it will be very painful for him, very—very intricate and cruel.” She began to cry again.

“Intricate?” he asked, stroking her thick hair. “ _Sounds_ ghastly.”

“I don’t know more,” she said. “Or—I daren’t _say_ more. I’ve never seen him so. I don’t think I could…he asked me to stay and I fled. I was sure if I _did_ stay, I would say everything wrong, offer every comfort wrong.” She sobbed against Gwindor’s shirtfront. Then she recovered herself, very bravely and humbly as she always did, and said,

“You are his dear friend, Gwindor. The one whom he trusts with his mind as well as his heart. I think you must go and speak to both, now, or else he shall run mad.”

“I’ll go,” said Gwindor. “But I’ve one condition.”

“What is it?”

“You mustn’t stay here crying in the dark. Come inside, and let’s find the brats first. Or Wachiwi.” He had observed that Estrela was friendly with Wachiwi.

She nodded, and stepped away from him. Then side-by-side, they walked back to the kitchen. Miles and Caranthir were there, attending to their respective preparations of herbal tinctures and the next day’s bread.

Neither of them offered a greeting.

In the main hall, the children were finishing their supper. Beren and Wachiwi and Finrod were nearby, talking and laughing in low, pleasant voices. A dozen men were occupied with the usual card-rounds of the evening. Whatever madness was stirring in the sickroom, it hadn’t reached here.

“I’ll go to them,” Estrela said, pressing his hand, then hurried off.

Gwindor quickened his pace towards the northwest corner of the fort. Her words played over in his mind: _very intricate and cruel_. Gwindor was no doctor, but he could imagine, squirming inwardly, what sort of brace you’d have to build to lock to a leg as mangled as Russandol’s.

It would be better than the splint Bauglir had fashioned—but only in purpose. It might, in its own way, pain flesh and blood just as much. 

_Worth it, lad_ , thought Gwindor. _You must know that it’s worth it._ But who could say how Russandol had been stewing, still weak and fretful from all his long-suffered hurts?

Gwindor rapped thrice, as was his custom, before entering the sickroom. He was a little startled by the quickness with which Fingolfin opened the door and stepped outside of it, drawing it closed behind him.

“Good evening, sir,” said Gwindor.

“Good evening,” said Fingolfin, though he didn’t sound as if he believed it to be one. “Did you come to see Maedhros?”

“Of course.” Gwindor paused, lowering his voice. “If he could weather the visit.”

“Very good,” said Fingolfin, with his hand still on the door, as if Russandol should roll himself out of bed and come and open it behind him. “Very good, Gwindor. I think you are just the person he needs to see, at present.”

“Estrela said he was in a bad way.”

Fingolfin nodded, his brows deeply furrowed. “There has been…it has been an unfortunate day, I will say. But how could it be otherwise?” His hand left its hold on the door, now, and he took Gwindor lightly by the elbow, leading him away down the hall a few paces.

 _Out of earshot_ , Gwindor thought, and was already sorrier than he had been, thinking of how Russandol fared within the little room.

“You heard,” Fingolfin was asking gravely, “About his leg?”

“Doesn’t take a physician to see it’s amiss,” Gwindor answered, low. “I was with him when it was set wrong—hell of a business.”

“Precisely. Fingon wants to—”

“I know. And he should.” Even before he’d been knocked on the head a few times, Gwindor hadn’t been very sharp, but he was versed enough in violence to catch the whiff of a fight. No matter that this was a fight between doctor and invalid. “Did they quarrel, then? Him and Fingon.”

Fingolfin nodded, looking almost ashamed. “If you will see to Maedhros,” he said, “I will go and speak to my son as best I can. Whatever you…whatever you deem best to say to Maedhros, I shall trust. But I would only beg…I would only beg _as a father_ , that you do not judge Fingon too harshly in all of this. His heart and mind desire nothing but his cousin’s good.”

Gwindor shook his head. He didn’t need to know what had been said, to know his reply to _that_. “There’s nothing that could make me think ill of your boy,” he said. “Nothing. Not after what he’s done for mine.”

The smile on Fingolfin’s face was suddenly, dreadfully _young_. Gwindor couldn’t look on it long.

But less easy to escape was the sight of the boy in the sickroom, twisted beneath the bed-clothes, bad arm and bad leg contorted in a mockery of repose. Gwindor was first struck by the utter stillness of him, and stood still in consequence.

Russandol didn’t turn his head or try for a saucy smile. He had no quip or greeting. There was something _lost_ here, as hadn’t been before. For a long moment, tongue-tied on the threshold, Gwindor believed he’d never seen Russandol in such straits.

Then he remembered when he had. It was long ago; it was an ugly remembrance.

For this was not the boy who shook with sun-fever and blood-loss on Haldar’s old cot. Nor was it the boy who lay chained beside him in the forge, plotting their escape with every breath. This was the very first Russandol Gwindor had known—a Russandol before he _was_ Russandol, before he had any name at all.

Gwindor hadn’t loved him, then. Gwindor hadn’t cared that the muzzled dog was silent, meek even when beaten by his fellow slaves.

What words, with Fingon, had made him so again?

As if his feet were lead-shod, Gwindor crossed the floor between them. The chair in which Fingolfin had sat was askew. Gwindor straightened it, and lowered himself upon in it, still slow, still clumsy. Russandol, though he was facing him, hadn’t moved. But he _was_ facing, and his eyes were open. That was something, at least. Perhaps he’d spoken to his uncle. Perhaps he’d speak again.

Gwindor shifted his gaze from the blank, ravaged face, considering how the room around them had changed. On the bedside table, there was a bowl of water and a crimson-spotted cloth, seemingly fresh.

It was as good an opening as any. Gwindor tried to meet the wide, unseeing eyes again, and said,

“Are you bleeding, lad?”

He watched Russandol come back to him.

“It’s nothing,” Russandol murmured. “My mouth.” Then he was quiet anew, but his eyes remained fixed on Gwindor’s.

He’d cried himself out, that much was clear. His cheeks were still flushed; his nose and eyelids raw and damp.

Gwindor said, as gently as he could, as _goddamn_ gently as the world had left him to be, “I’m worried over you, lad.”

At this, Russandol’s eyes screwed shut. The tears flowed again. The chair, Gwindor thought, would not do. He shoved his clumsy form forward, falling to his knees beside the bed, his hands closing around Russandol’s lonely one.

(At times, Gwindor wondered if it would do Russandol good for someone to touch the handless place. To show him that it wasn’t a deformity to be feared, to be avoided, though it _was_ a deformity.)

“Why don’t you tell me about it?” Gwindor said, almost whispering, when Russandol’s sobs had quieted.

The boy didn’t open his eyes. His face was half hidden in his rumpled pillow, in his tangled red curls. His chest heaved like a dying thing. Gwindor brought his hands there, folding Russandol’s left hand inward. Beneath his knuckles, Russandol’s heart fluttered.

“Can’t.” One word, and Russandol must have known—as he always did—that that was not enough. He said, voice thick, “I’m sorry, Gwindor. I can’t. I can’t bear any of it, yet. Oh, God. I-I can’t.”

Gwindor’s sight blurred. “I didn’t mean about…about the leg,” he said, pressing his grip tighter. “I already heard.”

Russandol’s eyelids lifted, then, just enough for Gwindor to see how his mood changed. The tears and frantic frailty were beaten back—not by weariness alone. “You did, did you? From—from my doctor?”

So the fight Estrela had spoken of wasn’t out of him yet. That was both good and bad. Gwindor didn’t let go of his hand.

“Doesn’t matter how I know,” he said, levelly. “What matters is that it’s a good thing, Russandol, in the long run.”

Silence. Russandol could muzzle himself in cold, cruel steel, sometimes, when he wished to.

Gwindor wanted very badly to ask him to say something. Anything, really. At last, Russandol spared him the request.

“In the long run,” he said. He sighed a little, and his fingers loosened under Gwindor’s. “Nobody seems to care, particularly, whether I want a _long run_ , so to speak.”

 _Lost_ , thought Gwindor, frantic as a drowning man was frantic; quiet as the swell of deathly water was quiet. _He’s lost._ He prayed, no more than an instant, a plunge, then asked,

“Did you ever think to wonder why I cared for you?”

Russandol’s brow twitched. Interest or confusion, maybe, but either was a boon, for they delayed his bitterness and wreckage by keeping him from the shore of his own despair. “You’re a good sort, and I attract—all sorts?”

“No,” said Gwindor. “You know all the reasons I didn’t think well of you. Hear me out on the reason I _did_. You were…it was that fool moment of yours, in the yard. When we had all made you our scapegoat, and Haldar took it to his brave boy heart.” Gwindor swallowed. _Haldar_ —that was hard. That would always be hard. “No good would have come of that ruckus. Couldn’t have. But I didn’t know _what_ they’d do, until it was over. And—and I didn’t know, then, what it was I saw in _you_.” His eyes, his nostrils stung. “You were bruised and—half as you are already, with the wounds fresher. You had no cause to love _us_. But you put your hands out over that boy, as best you could. I saw it, and I—it’s as I said. I didn’t know then, why it made me look after you.”

Another pause. There would be a good many pauses, if he was to say this piece. This final, awful, love-wounded piece.

“Truth was, it was the first time since my Gelmir that I’d known a body to fight like that. To fight for something when it was stupid and brave to do so.”

Russandol, Lord love him, was fond of a story. No matter how lost he was, that still held true. He was listening to every word.

Gwindor said, “That was the last of Gelmir, in life. I don’t talk of it much. _Can’t_.”

“I’m sorry,” Russandol breathed, wrung like a rag with sorrow, with understanding. “Gwindor…”

“Let me talk. You’re tired from being het up. It was Mairon. You knew that, I think.”

Russandol nodded.

“He…he took him in parts. Two hands, ‘stead of your one. Two eyes, ‘stead of Estrela’s one. Cut his throat, finally, when that was long past—long past being a mercy. I don’t remember _that_. They’d drug me off, or stoned me unconscious, or the like. And I…I’ve my shoulder to show for it. That’s all. A whole man with a crooked spine, and his brother strewn ‘cross a field? Don’t it make you _sick_?”

Russandol was biting his lip as he oughtn’t, what with the bleeding, but Gwindor knew he was doing it to keep quiet. The tears were tracking down his cheeks again, slipping towards the pillow.

He went on.

“I didn’t make it right. Nothing else matters—not how many men held me back. Not how powerful vicious that hell-spawned monster is. I didn’t make it right. That boy was all I had, and I was all _he_ had. And where did that leave us? If we both were dead, perhaps I’d be at peace. If I’d died afore him, I’d call it blessed ignorance.”

He was rambling. He always rambled, when he finally spoke of Gelmir, and he always wept. He was weeping now, too, though he scarcely noticed. Russandol was too busy with his own tears to give any sign that he did.

“If they’d have let me have him back—alive—I wouldn’t have—I wouldn’t have minded that he had no hands. No eyes. He could have been dumb and blind and in need of carrying, and I’d have said, _All right then, Gelmir, we’ve a long road ahead, but it’s all right._ ”

He wiped his nose on his dirty sleeve, still damp from the pump-water. Belle—Estrela—would scold him for that, but very kindly. Or perhaps she wouldn’t scold at all.

“Don’t you see, Russandol?” he asked, quieter. “Don’t you see, Maedhros? I’d give anything on this earth to have my chance, however faulty. When I saw your cousin with you, when I saw you as you are—oh, I mourned, lad. I mourned for what they’d done to you. But I—it’s a hopeful thing, isn’t it? To have one hand gone, and a leg your cousin can mend? It’s a _hopeful_ thing, to see you looking at me like this. Safe enough to shed a tear. Safe enough to shout, if that’s what you like.”

Russandol whispered, “I wish I could see it so.”

Gwindor cleared his throat. “It will take time,” he agreed. “But we _have_ time, now.”

The bitter smile on the boy’s cracked lips, though it faded quickly, was not a comforting sight. “Fingon gave me a day,” said Russandol, offhandedly.

“A day to decide?”

“No. I’ve no decision to make. He’ll break my leg again, whether I will it or not.” His lips thinned into a firm line. Then he said, quiet yet distinct, “He was very clear on that point. I have a day to come ‘round to the idea.”

Gwindor did not know what passed between them. He could only see what lay broken thereafter. He said, wishing that he had half the silver of Russandol’s tongue, “A day feels too long and too short, then, doesn’t it?”

“I wanted him to kill me,” said Russandol. “There on the mountain. I—as soon as I knew him, I hoped.”

Gwindor’s breath caught in his throat, being reminded of this. He still hadn’t quite recovered from Russandol’s saying it the first time. “I know,” he began, shy and slow. “I know that…”

“You make me ashamed for that, with talk of _your_ hope,” Russandol continued, as if his last remark had not been of much import. As if his desire for death was not mysteriously near, haunting the corners of the room, calling up to him from the lake in which he dove to save a shiftless brother. “With talk of…of your brother. But I am afraid I am still a coward for all that, and I…” His features twisted, but he was himself again. “I can’t escape the savagery of it. The bone, and the—the vile contraption that he wants to fit in it.”

“In it?” Gwindor asked, despite himself.

“There’s a pin. Maybe more than one.”

_I wanted him to kill me. I asked Fingon to kill me, but he wouldn’t._

“I’m a simple man,” said Gwindor. He released Russandol’s hand with a little pat, for his knees and back were aching, and sat upon the chair again. “I can’t much guess what would be of aid to you, in thinking over things, Red. But perhaps you could tell me, what I ought to do?”

Russandol’s mouth worked, forming words that he chose not to speak. His fingers crept up and plucked at the crease of his lips.

“All right then,” said Gwindor. “I shan’t press you.”

“You’re not.”

“Eh?”

“You’re not pressing me,” Russandol said. “You never do.” He sighed. “But you’re my only friend remaining, so I don’t like to ask you for anything.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” said Gwindor, chagrinned by how quickly he found himself being gruff with the boy, but of course—of _course_ Russandol was most himself when he was being slightly, charmingly fractious. “Maglor will storm in here within the hour, I expect. The children are begging to see you. And Estrela—” The look on Russandol’s face, and the memory of Estrela’s tears, stopped him _there._

“She didn’t tell you, then?”

Gwindor shifted uncomfortably. “No,” he answered, honestly. “She was…she was distressed for you. Asked that I come. But she—”

“Fingon and I quarreled,’ Russandol said, half-hiding his face again. “ _Quarrel_ isn’t enough for a word for it. I’m to have my punishment nailed into me for what I said to _him_ , but for what Estrela heard…I’m sorry, horribly sorry, and I don’t think I can bear what follows after _that_. Her sweet opinion, all lost.”

Gwindor pressed the heel of his hand against his eye. “You’ve a whole court of law knocking round in that silly head of yours, haven’t you?”

“I don’t know,” said Russandol, quite miserably.

“Deciding what’s a sentence and then dredging up what’s a crime. Do you say these things to me just to get a rise? Just so I can tell you that you’re wrong?”

No answer, which was an answer in itself.

“You’re wrong, Red.”

“You didn’t hear what Fingon said,” Russandol parried. Then: “Thank God.”

Gwindor leaned forward. “I don’t care what Fingon said,” he growled. “Or what you said to him. You’re a couple of broken-hearted babies as far as I’m concerned. And small wonder! It’s been a cruel world to all of us, Russandol. No need to make more cruelty out of the dust of the earth, just because you’re bored and bed-bound.”

Russandol’s tear had dried on his cheeks. He blinked through his tangled lashes. “Babies? Well, don’t tell Fingon that. He might build you a brace for your shoulder in vengeance.”

Gwindor glared at him. “And I’d take it, if it would mend this stubborn thing.” Then he softened. “Is it really the leg? The thought of—”

“I’ve been carved into so many times,” Russandol said. “And…and left to _wait_ , so many times. There’s only so much a man can get on his knees and thank his tormentor for, isn’t there?”

“So your cousin’s a tormentor, now, to you?”

“Yes.” But Russandol’s defiance was a little wavery. “A tormentor for my own good. I’m told that’s very different.”

“I’ve said my piece,” said Gwindor. “I can’t persuade you more.”

“You needn’t. I’ll do it.” Russandol’s hand, still marked up by Gwindor’s grip, was flattened against his breast now: stiff with tension. “I’ll not fight the good doctor’s plan for me.”

Gwindor decided he should likely accept, without question, that he would never be able to follow the line of Russandol’s thinking.

“But don’t convey that message tonight,” Russandol said. “I don’t want…I don’t want him to know that I said _yes_ , tonight.”

Fingon was doubtless drying his own tears somewhere, if Gwindor knew him at all. He didn’t say so. He only ventured, “He’s not Bauglir, Russandol. Fingon’s not Bauglir.”

“Oh,” said Russandol, smiling swiftly, “I know he’s not. He’s Fingon. Infinitely more dangerous, though they’d both be insulted to know it. If I had to lay a wager as to which would be the death of me…but ah, ah. I’ve made such a mistake before. And Bauglir _would_ have finished me, at the end, if—” He stopped short there, his face paling to stark whiteness even in the yellow light. Gwindor did not know the look in his eyes; he only knew that he hated it.

After a moment, Russandol said softly,

“Never mind. You’ve been a brick, Gwindor. That’s what matters, and I’ve no doubt that you’re right as to what a good man _ought_ to do. I’ll even try to be that good man for you, someday.”

“As long as you can sort out how much we all care for you,” Gwindor mumbled. He was still troubled by that long, blank stare. To occupy himself, he went to fetch Russandol a cup of water—it would be much needed, after so many tears had been shed.

Russandol did not answer his last remark. He drank the water without complaint, and did not protest when Gwindor refilled the cup. After a little while, he lay on his back, and his hand crept up to the nape of his neck, to twist in the soft locks of hair that curled there. It was an old trick of his, and it stayed a little of Gwindor’s worrying, fidgeting thoughts.

“You didn’t fail,” Russandol said, half-dreamily. Perhaps he was readying himself for another sleep at last. “You didn’t fail…anyone in your life, I don’t think. If I’m to think well of myself, Gwindor—if I’m to believe I should _live_ —then you must think well of yourself, too.”

“Go to sleep, lad,” said Gwindor. “That’s an order.”

Morning would bring its own horrors and hopes.


End file.
